


Art.

by hawktasha



Category: Avengers (Comics), Black Widow (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Art, Bedtime, Budapest, Clint is an artist, Clintasha - Freeform, Hawkeye the artist, Marvel - Freeform, Natasha asleep, POV Clint Barton, Painting, Post-Budapest, Sleepless, Sometime after a mission, draws, or maybe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 21:26:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3870334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawktasha/pseuds/hawktasha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>«Because in the end he always thinks, there would never be a picture capable of reflect her art.»</p>
            </blockquote>





	Art.

He opened his eyes.

All he saw was darkness and smudges until his eyes adapted to the morning light.

She was lying next to him, calm, peaceful. Her red hair falling over the pillow and her back.

He looked down to her and smiled nearly as a reflex.

She slightly shaked and put her right hand over the pillow, turning around and lying over her left side.

The cut of her lips was nearly closed, but still some crimson and dry blood remain around the cut.

Her pale skin mixed with the white sheets in a perfect harmony.

He slowly moved, trying not to awake her. She wasn’t exactly a morning person.

She seemed fragile and sweet over there, even though he knew she was completely the opposite.

 

The nice, the bad. The weak, the strong. The red and white.

Two words colliding.

 

He loved painting those contrasts, printing them in a paper, trying to make them infinite.

He painted her at every moment he could.

He often liked to think about which would be her reaction if she ever finds out that he does.

 

_Would she get mad? Would she love it?_

 

Nothing about Natalia Alavnova Romanova was known for sure.

Everyone knows that there is a very easy way about her, so there is nothing easy about her.

But anyone her as he did.

It was his goal to discover her, to read her tiny mind; so there would never be any secret danger threatening her in the dark, so they could face anything together.

 

She trembled.

He always wondered how she was created, under who’s desire.

‘Cause he believed everyone is on Earth, or better said alive, for a purpose.

So again, his question, his doubt.

How such a masterpiece, such a piece of art, was so profoundly broken.

Then, he sadly smiled remembering,  _the most beautiful faces hide the deepest scars_.

 

He sit slowly on the pillow, his back lying on the wall, and then he took an old leather notebook and a worn-out pencil.

He looked down to her once again, capturing she on his mind, even thought he already knew her by heart.

 

Her left hand moved, suddenly lines started to cover the blank page and form a face, a chin, lips.

Then they formed hair, falling over the female face on the page, and finally the neck. It didn’t take so long, at least the first steps.

He spent hours sketching every single detail, even the smallest ones; from her scars and bruises till her muscles and moles.

Including the birth mark she had under her ear, the one she always covered, the one she hated.

He wanted it to be perfect.

 

He finished the portrait with the first light of the morning and looked it under them, critical.

 

A few seconds after, unexpectedly, he pulled the page up the book and he crumpled it, just to throw it to the desk on his left. A desk full of broken and old papers.

 

He painted her every single night he was sleepless and she was asleep (which lately happens a lot), and every single morning he destroyed those pictures.

They all ended in the same place.

The draws were good thought, he’d always been good at drawing; but there was something that didn’t convince him at all, in anyone.

 

Because in the end he always thinks,  _ **there would never be a picture capable of reflect her art.**_


End file.
